She wrote in red letters
Perhaps it was better
Than what she spoke
Everthing I read
Was a whole lot better
Than the lilies
That never toil or spell
Consider the birds of the air
They never reap or sow
She wrote in red letters
Because the effort to talk
Was too burdensome for her mouth
She spilt a bucket of honey
And kept walking
For it was nothing of else
Anger for what thing
Should her blood boil
For a loss of some wealth
She wrote in red letters
While her tongue tied knots
But I heard verily what was said
When I read her books
That were pulled from the shelf